When they emerged from the gatehouse’s shadow, a party of august men and women, clad in all colors of robes, came forward to stand before them. Quarath stood among them, smiling. Beldyn’s chariot halted, and he looked down at the elf regally. The Miceram sparkled and shone in the noon daylight. A hush rippled through the crowd as the Emissary bowed.
“Welcome, Holiness,” Quarath said and gestured at the robed figures behind him. “These are the hierarchs of a holy church. We have done wrong, following the wrong leader, who has reigned here until now. We cry your forgiveness.”
The mob murmured at this, and beside Cathan, Tavarre chuckled.
“Clever,” the baron muttered, “asking mercy in front of so many people.”
Cathan nodded, scouring the crowd with his gaze as Beldyn raised his hands, signing the triangle over the clerics. The crown flared with ruby light.
“Tam paripo,” Beldyn pronounced.
I forgive thee.
There were more introductions, each of the high priests kneeling in turn to receive the Lightbringer’s blessing, then Quarath bowed again and gestured for Beldyn to follow. The throng parted as the hierarchs led the way down the broad street, past shrines and colonnades, obelisks and lush gardens. The masses stayed thick all the way, so their progress was slow, and by the time the party reached the arched entrance to the broad expanse of the Barigon, Cathan, nervous about possible treachery, was shaking in his saddle, his hand white-knuckled about his sword’s hilt.
The great plaza was empty, Solamnic Knights standing guard at its various entrances, and desolate-looking after the mad press of the streets. The Great Temple seemed incomparably beautiful to Cathan, all marble and crystal, swaying trees and explosions of bright-colored birds above its fabled gardens. Its gold spires glistened against the cloudless sky, and the basilica dome sparkled like a diamond. Cathan momentarily forgot his fears, and stared in mute amazement. Beside him, Beldyn smiled, his eyes aglow.
“Efisa,” the Lightbringer whispered, in a voice so quiet only Cathan could hear. “I’m home, at last.”
He climbed down from his chariot, and the rest of the party dismounted as well, handing their reins to a cluster of waiting acolytes. Cathan eyed each young priest carefully, studying their faces, looking for strange shapes beneath their cassocks, but there was nothing. Still gripping his sword, he fell in at the Lightbringer’s side.
Onward Quarath led them, across the plaza to the church’s long, wide steps. Beldyn climbed without pause-and so Cathan and the others-then stopped before its high, platinum doors, waiting as they swung silently open. Then, genuflecting and signing the triangle, he entered the Temple.
They passed quickly through a vast, airy atrium-so quickly, in fact, that Cathan was only vaguely aware of a succession of silken arrases, intricate mosaics, and pools filled with glittering, jewel-hued fish. Busts of long-dead Kingpriests, carved of serpentine and turquoise, looked down from pedestals, each glaring or smiling in his own manner. The air danced with butterflies and dulcimer music.
At the hall’s end stood another pair of doors, bearing the falcon and triangle. They remained closed as the party drew near, and Quarath stepped forward to open them. Before he could, however, both Tavarre and Holger moved to interpose.
“Sire,” the baron said to Beldyn, “I think it wise if my men go in first.”
Beldyn waved his hand. “Very well, but draw no weapon unless you must. No man has ever killed another in the basilica. I would not have you be the first.”
Nodding, Tavarre gestured to a handful of men, bandits and Knights alike. Cathan remained by Beldyn’s side as the others moved forward, touching their blades but not unsheathing them. His scarred face resolute, the baron cracked the doors open and led them through.
The wait seemed to last forever. Cathan’s eyes darted this way and that, returning again and again to the hierarchs. They were a strange lot, powdered and perfumed, jewels sparkling on their fingers, wrists, throats, and brows. He felt a stir of loathing at the sight of the clerics. These were the same who had allowed the plague to ravage his home and his family. At the same time, though, he thought of Dista, and a strange sympathy swelled in him for those who dwelt within the Temple’s walls. Surrounded by such beauty, was it any wonder so few of them could conceive of how his people had suffered?
No longer, he told himself. Symeon had been complacent; Kurnos was corrupt. Things would be different when Beldinas reigned.
Finally, the doors opened again, and Tavarre emerged, his gaze stern.
“The way is clear, Holiness,” he said, bowing to Beldyn. “My men have searched the hall, and it is empty-save for the wretch himself.”
Beldyn’s mouth became a hard line. “Come, then. Let us end this.”
They entered the cavernous Hall of Audience, the border-men staring in wonder at the blue-tiled floor, the rose-petal walls, the crystal dome gleaming overhead. The sound of their footsteps, of rattling armor, echoed through the great chamber as they strode toward the dais at the far end. Cathan’s eyes narrowed upon the golden, rose-wreathed throne and the man who sat upon it.
Kurnos glowered at them, resplendent in silver robes, jeweled breastplate, and sapphire tiara. He swept his gaze over the approaching party, and his face reddened to match his beard when he saw the hierarchs and Lord Holger. Finally, as the group halted before the dais, his eyes settled on Beldyn. Cathan shivered. He had never seen hate so intense, so unreasoning.
“So,” the Kingpriest sneered, “you’re the whelp who plots to steal my throne.”
The Knights and bandits muttered at this, but Beldyn held up a hand, stilling their noise. On his brow the Miceram blazed a bright light. Next to it, Kurnos’s tiara seemed but a trinket. When he smiled, it was as though his blazing eyes could cut steel.
“I am the Lightbringer,” he said, the crystal dome ringing with his voice. “I wear the Crown of Power, lost long ago. The god has chosen me to rule.”
Kurnos frowned, then barked a derisive laugh. “Idiot boy. I am Paladine’s voice upon Krynn.”
“Blasphemer!” Beldyn snapped, his face suddenly becoming a terrible mask of rage. “You say such a thing, you who used dark magic to murder Lady Ilista and tried to kill me as well?”
The hierarchs started, glancing at one another in shock. The Kingpriest stiffened, the color draining from his face.
“I did it for the good of the empire,” Kurnos muttered.
“No. You did it for yourself.”
For more than a minute, silence reigned within the hall. Cathan held his breath, waiting-for what, he didn’t know. Finally, Beldyn spoke again in granite tones.
“Uncrown, Usurper. Leave my throne, or I will drag you from it.”
Kurnos sat still. Muscles jumped in his face, and the fingers of his right hand worked restlessly, toying with a ring on his left mounted with a huge emerald. Finally, with a shuddering sigh, the Kingpriest rose to his feet. Bowing his head, he stepped away from the throne, lifted the sapphire tiara from his head, and set it on a golden armrest. His eyes glistening, Kurnos stepped off the dais’s highest stair.
“Very well,” he said. “The empire is yours, Lightbringer. I would ask one thing of you, though, before your men take me.”
Beldyn nodded. “Speak.”
“I ask for mercy,” the Kingpriest said. “I have sinned. Absolve me, Beldinas.”
Gasps echoed through the hall as all eyes turned toward Beldyn. For a moment his brows knitted as though he might refuse, but then the Lightbringer spread his hands.